Candle's Flame
by Alatariel Narmolanya
Summary: Rohan and Gondor were brothers once. But with years of passing they have come to mistrust and envy. But lust and revenge go far, beyond what can be mended and fixed. ..... If the country of Rohan was to be fire, it was only a candle's flame.
1. Prologue

Prologue — The Elements of Rohan

The Rohirrim were a strange folk. Wild and unpredictable, loyal and brave, they were rather like the winds that roamed their land restlessly. Also like their land they were stable, and held to their alliances and promises firmly. So one could describe the people of Rohan as rather people of their homeland's elements, the earth and the air.

The Rohirrim preferred a battle of swords and spears to a battle of wit and tongue, as fire might without reason but strength. Never less the tales of Rohan seemed to spring out of the grass like reality when told at night by a flickering fire. Many battles of glory and gory, death and life, had been fought in Rohan - battles of Earth and the Sky, of Water and Fire, the opposing forces of Rohan. Eorl the young, the white horses that had beaten the wind at its own game of speed — they had faded into the earth, leaving nothing but proud memories and fireside tales.

The Rohirrim were hardy, like the earth. In hard times the women and children had learned that without a weapon they would not survive. They lived by the rules of the earth: battle for peace, and to be strong and quick of the mind. There had been hard times; luckily nowadays short peace had come.

It was always a matter of peace or battle with the people of Earth and Sky, the people of Water and Fire. The people had learned not to love deeply in the others' ways; they loved each other and depended each other as the Earth might depend on the Sky — never together, never apart. Death was greeted quietly; life was brief and bittersweet in passing. The Rohirrim could change their hearts at will. Thus they were like water.

Rohan had gone through jolts of bitter memories… Battles that never had been won, magnificent warriors who had been lost… Rohan felt the Earth move and the Wind cry with something different; something evil. The Rohirrim became suspicious, but they did not know. The Wild Men of Dunland had been silenced in the deep woods; the Rohirrim had nothing to worry about.

The Rohirrim became suspicious of others. Of the hobylta they had never seen or heard of for long ages, of Elves they mistrusted, of Dwarves they thought less of, of the Men of Gondor they now despised. Gondor had once been loved as a brother once. But as the two countries became more distanced by the dangers they faced now, and neither came into each other's aid as they were in danger, mistrust and fury grew between them. It was not as serious as if a war should go on between them — almost -- but the two countries did not love as they used to.

The times were growing dark in the South; it bloomed like a dark flower might. A dark, red flower, full of hatred and lust and blood.

If the country of Rohan was to be fire, of all its elements, then it was only a candle's flame. 


	2. Chapter One: The Silver Light

Chapter 1 - The Silver Light

Captain Darian, of the Riders of the Mark, sat on his horse as scanned the hilly horizon. Under his helm his golden hair flowed with the wind, brushing it slightly over his hazel eyes. He brushed it away impatiently and continued looking. There were bound to be a group of Orcs here; Gerin had seen them with his own eyes and so had his van of Riders. 'This must be a trick,' he thought to himself. He had had bent down on the ground to search for Orc tracks often enough. If all the back-aching work was to go for nothing, Darian felt that he might explode with frustration.

Behind him the group of Riders - consisting about 40 or so - exchanged glances. Darian was the most respected and the best fighter and captain of all of the Riders, but he had a terrible temper to deal with. It was well that he was Captain, for if he was ignored and trampled on he had to be restrained from jumping on the culprit. The group felt almost sorry for the Orcs; indeed Darian's swordsmanship would be so great as they would be strengthened by fury of being kept waiting. Darian was not a patient man.

The sky above was growing dark with storm clouds and the darkness of the night. The Riders had gone out since early noon, and already it was twilight. When there were no sign of Orcs for twenty minutes, and some of the men had gone forward in all of the four directions to search, Nelrith went up to his captain. "Captain Darian," he said. Nelrith was an overeager, young Rider, but he was much loved for he could cheer up even the gloomiest of the Riders, including Darian. His fighting skills weren't to be scoffed at, either. He had been trained by his father, who had been one of the most lithe Riders on the ground and horseback. Indeed, Nelrith had developed his agility. There were some rumors that Nelrith had Elvish blood in his veins, but it was rarely spoken of.

When Darian didn't respond, Nelrith coughed and repeated himself. "Captain Darian? We should set for camp this night, and a secure one, as well. It might be a heavy storm tonight, but it might be better to stay here than to make for the closest village."

Darian gave no sign that he had heard, but those closest to him knew that he was planning and thinking. Darian had one of the most magnificent minds that came up with the cleverest jests, plans, and arguements. His eyes gleamed, and then he sighed and patted his stallion. "Very well." The others started to soothe their horses and unpack some of the provisions. Meln was the one who was the best with horses, and he started brewing up a special mixture of herbs, grass, and whatnot that kept the stallions extra strong and agile.

Darian was tempted to tend a fire, but he knew that it would attract attention from the enemy when it was not needed. He kept his spear close by him and his sword loose in its sheath, so that he might be prepared. He did not have to tell his group of Riders to be wary, for the Riders were as good as Darian in his training.

The hills, which were green, gold, brown, and gray all mixed up into a hue that seemed just right for the people of Rohirrim, grew a dark purple, moorish color as the night deepened. As the darkness bloomed, Darian's confusion grew as well. He knew from experience that Orcs were impatient, savage creatures - rather like himself, he thought, laughing drily - and that if hunted for hours on end, they would attack whatever that was following them. Orcs were not very rare in Rohan, but they did not come often, either. Darian, deep in thought, murmured a "thank you" to Fyrell who had handed him some bread and dried meat. He had not even noticed that the Riders had unpacked.

Nelrith and the ones nearest around him looked up in dismay as the first raindrops began to fall. They were not heavy, for in Rohan rain never was, but they seemed to give an eerier mood to the dark night. "Well, that means we can't light a bigger fire now, even if we changed our minds," Nelrith muttered. Some of them had very small "torches" they had lit, and hid carefully under cloaks and surrounded them as not to attract attention from enemies. The fires glowed, their golden and scarlet manes dulled by the shadows.

Darian stood up suddenly. "Fyrell," he asked, "did our brother Riders return from the scout?"

Fyrell was a calm, silent man, he never wasted words of any sort. "No. We have sent some of us after them, so they could return with news, but even they have not returned."

Darian bit his lip. He was - he realized - afraid for the others. He was not that old, only of thirty or forty or so years, and he had never been truly comfortable with lives weighing down on him. He shook his cloak to dry off the water and dried his armor as best as he could, and then jumped onto the bay back of Windmane, his horse. Some of the others rose to accompany him, however he shook his head. "I'm going alone," he murmured.

Myene protested. "Captain, what if you don't return-"

"I will," Darian reassured. "And if I don't, I'll return later with the others."

The next in charge, Sinthe, another Captain, got up anyway and got on his mare. "Darian," he said in his deep voice, "I am coming with you and you would be unwise to stop me." He gripped his spear, and Darian grinned. Darian and Sinthe had been brought up together, almost as brothers, and they understood each other very well. Darian nodded and said, "But no more. I won't hold any more lives with my commands." Darian sprang into the darkness, with Sinthe trailing behind him moments after.

The two rode off, meeting the wind and the rain as they rushed. It had been some leagues when Darian decided to break off. "I will go off to the South and the West!" Darian shouted. Sinthe nodded. "If we find anybody, we go back. A day from now and we ride back to Edoras!" The two, seemingly just shadows fleeting through the storm, seperated and went their own ways.

Darian scanned for any human forms on the ground or standing, and cursed to himself. The darkness and the hilly elevation, not to mention the wind and the rain, scattered Darian's night vision considerably. He instead whistled piercingly, a whistle for the horses to gather, and waited for the sound of hooves to appear. Luckily with the horses the Riders would be. At least, Darian hoped.

He waited for what seemed about an eternity - in reality it had been twenty minutes - until at last he saw three horse-forms galloping toward him. He recognized, as they gathered closer, that they were wounded, and only one Rider was on them. He was slumped over, and Darian bit his lip in horror.

He whispered to the horses to calm them down a bit and looked over the man. Darian knew it was Taryne, nobody had as bright red-golden hair that seemed to - well, shine dully even now. Darian saw that Taryne must have lost a lot of blood, and that his leg did not seem well at all. Its muscle was almost torn away, and crimson blood leaked out of the armor. Darian ripped off some strips of a spare cloth and wrapped them around the leg, but that was all he could do for now. He had scarce knowledge of herblore and healing; he was a man of fighting and wars.

The Rider Captain blanched when he saw Taryne's face. It had been slashed at with many sword strokes, and it was not at all pretty. The dirt and the rain mingled with the blood to make some kind of paste on the face. One long scar was very close to the right eye, so very close that with passing millimeters it could have been slashed out. Most of the skin on Taryne's face was raw; Darian grimaced in sympathy and disgust. Taryne could be disfigured for all his life. He was sure that the Orcs had done this. 'There must be more than I would have thought,' he thought inwardly.

He turned to the other horses and noticed that one was limping. Wiping away at the rain and setting down the wounded Rider on Windmane, Darian let out his whistle as loud as he dared. When no more Riders or horses came, he sighed and onto Windmane, making sure that the three other horses were following and Taryne was balanced against his chest. He knew that he needed serious medical help at the instant; otherwise he would never wake from the coma he was in.

If on a cue, there was a stroke of bright light, if a sword piercing the ground, and after a few moments a loud rumble of thunder. Darian muttered something inaudible, and then galloped toward northeast where he had seperated from Sinthe. Accompanied by rumbles of thunder and flashes of lightning, Darian rode to the spot. He could not ride fast, as he was hindered by Taryne and the three other horses, but he knew Sinthe had not returned. He felt an ... an aura that he had returned.

He looked over Taryne once more. The Rider's chest was slowly and faintly moving up and down, but Darian relaxed a little from knowing that he was alive. "I should have brought a healer," Darian muttered as another lightning pierced the ground. He looked up worriedly. Thunderstorms were not very common in the plains. He hoped it was wet enough not to spread a mass fire. Now that would take days to put out, if the grass had been dry.

Suddenly, with a loud roar, there was a white light shining in Darian's eyes. 'It is just lightning,' he told himself. However this one's radiance seemed to last longer, and the lightning seemed to be a silver flame upon a dark hearth. It seemed to land about 5 leagues away from him, and he pushed Windmane a little in worry. He controlled himself and thought reasonably that Sinthe would have avoided the lightning if he had seen it. Darian stayed away from where the lightning had struck, in case of fire.

Finally, overcome by impatience and worry, he rode off into the direction where Sinthe had first ridden off into. It was some time before he saw a figure standing in the rain, next to a horse and over a fallen figure on the ground, holding a sword - was it Sinthe?

But even from this distance Darian knew it was not so. The man was taller than Sinthe, and he was not wearing any of the Rohirrim armor. Besides, he had a bow and an arrow quiver at his back, with a hood and cloak. Sinthe did not range.

The figure looked up as Darian cautiously approached him. It was hard to tell in the darkness, but he seemed to have long, shoulder-length hair and a Ranger's clothes on. Darian had never seen a Ranger; however he had heard of them. Numenorean, he remembered. He tensed up a little as Gondor was a Numenorean country. If Gondor had caused this... No, that was ridiculous, Gondor did not have wizards and mages to cause up this "magical storm."

What reflected out at Darian the most were the Ranger's - that is, if he was a Ranger and not a man in Ranger's clothing - eyes. It seemed, at first, a silvery hue - like the lightning that had just come down, Darian thought - and then turned a stormy gray as he saw a stranger and possible danger. Even in the dark they seemed to - glow, a little like cat's eyes. They had a mysterious, forever look around them. If Darian had seen an Elf, then he would have said that the stranger had Elvish eyes. However he thought that anyway, as they had - well, the Elvish look to them.

And then he realized.

The fallen figure was Sinthe; without his helm. His mare was nowhere to be seen. However Sinthe was bloody and the stranger had a sword out. And the sword was covered with blood...

Darian had the advantage of height horseback, and he pointed his spear at the Ranger. "Who are you? Speak your buisness and do not move! He was a Captain of the Riders, of the Rohirrim, he who you have attacked." The Ranger glared at him, but did not lower or raise his sword.

"I have not attacked him," he said quietly. "He was lying here whence I came. It seems like he has been attacked by Orcs, or perhaps the Haradrim. And he needs instant healing, as well." Darian still pointed the spear at him. The Ranger seemed to roll his eyes. "I have not told you my name, or rather names, those are mine alone and have no buisness with you. Let me go, and I will heal your -" his gaze glanced over at the wounded Taryne - "companions. I will go my own way afterwards."

"How can I trust you, if I do not know your name or buisness in Rohan?" Darian growled. "I could kill you now, stranger."

"So it is. Trust me."

"I do not put trust in strangers, especially those who come in midst of a dark storm."

"True. Then fate must decide. Or perhaps Thengel, Lord of the Mark."

The voice had some patience in it, as if Darian was a child guarding fierecely over a doll nobody wants. Darian knew it, and felt silly. He thought over the offer, and then sighed. "Fine, stranger," he said. "If you are true to your bidding, let it be. If you are not and the two end up dead, or perhaps you are caught trying to kill me or them, Thengel, Lord of the Mark, will personally see to you."

"I do not hold false to my word if I see it thus," the stranger said. He looked up; the battle of lightning and thuder, rain and wind still ran in the sky. It was not a good place or day to heal; but the Ranger knew that the two needed immediate healing. Now.

He got some athelas out of his pouch from his belt, and got some water out from his waterskin. "Warmer water would be better, but this will do," he murmured, in case Darian was listening. He first saw to Taryne, bathed his face and started to put out and put back in some herbs. However athelas stayed there.

Darian looked to the West. He knew that the other Riders must be worrying, despite their knowledge and the ability of mastered swordsmanship, and he felt heavy himself. Whether drenched by fear or rain Darian did not know, although he suspected both.

The Ranger had nearly finished with Taryne a few moments later. "He needs more help," he sighed. "But that is the best I can do this minute and he will hold - for now."

Darian had not loosened his spear. He was still suspicious of the stranger. "What about him?" he said, nodding at Sinthe. Darian knew the risk of speaking any of their names, if this stranger was a possible spy.

The other seemed to bite his lip. He had strong night vision from his raising from the Elves, and by heritage. "I do not know."

Darian turned his head. "Why?"

"He... He does not come back. My healing skills are limited, because of the storm tonight. He also seems to have been struck by the lightning we had, the big one moments ago."

Darian groaned inwardly. Stupid Sinthe... Sinthe always had been something of a daredevil, no wonder..!

The Ranger glanced at Darian. He could see how worried he was, and that reminded him of a relationship with a certain Slivan Elf.

Darian lowered his spear. "Then you may go," he said, seating Taryne on Windmane and trying to pull up Sinthe. The stranger seemed to have a long-ago look in his eyes. "I do not think I could," he said slowly. "You need more help. How will you seat the second man? On your horse? On the other three, so that he may fall? Nay. You are going to need my help."

"And why does a stranger offer his help? He could have gone his own way, and have avoided more danger of being sentenced guilty."

The Ranger fell silent for a while. "... I know of one, a stranger, who has saved my life when he offered his help. It will be unwise to let me go, Rider. You know that."

Darian had to admit he was right. Despite all his warnings and thoughts, he had to admit. "Fine, Ranger," he glared. "However one wrong move, and the Halls of Mandos awaits."

The Ranger nodded once and got busy with arranging Sinthe on his horse. Then he got on with surprising agility - that even greater of Nelrith's - and looked back. "West," Darian said. He rode behind the stranger to make sure that he wasn't doing any harm, and did not lower his spear. Darian tried to keep his mind blank and alert from the toil of emotions, comments, and judgement on his heart.

After they left the spot there was another flash of silver light, and that seemed to be the last of the thunder and the lightning, although the winds and the rain continued to rage, raging as Darian had never known before.

To Be Continued


	3. Chapter Two The Wind and the Rain

Chapter 2 - The Wind and the Rain

_"…But he had always been there, a part of me, a part of my life, just like the mud and the rain, and I had thought that he always would be. Yet the mud and the rain and the dust would all pass. I knew and understood that. What had happened to T.J. in the night I did not understand, but I knew that it would not pass. And I cried for those things which had happened in the night and would not pass."_

-- Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry by Mildred Taylor

Nelrith worriedly looked over at the place where Delrith and Sinthe had ridden over. He did not like to think why they were taking so long - it had been four hours since the two had left in search of the scouts - nor what they had faced. Some two or more hours ago there had been two great flashes of light, flashes that seemed more like some kind of magical beast than a storm light. Nelrith, when he had been but a mere child, had heard of those who have died after being hit by a lightning. He shivered, not just from the cold, and turned away. He felt slightly ashamed, maybe because he had been trained up not to be afraid. He had faced skirmishes

The others were worried, as well. They now had two weights on their minds: the Orc troupe and the disappearance of the scouts and the two captains. Fyrell had even ridden out - just for a league - to see if they were coming, or perhaps they were wounded, but the rain and the wind drove him back to the camp.

By now the "camp" was only a mess of poles and long-extinguished fires. The horses rolled their eyes warily, and some of the Riders had to control and calm theirs down. It was not that the horses were afraid of a mere storm; the storm seemed to have a creepy effect on the Riders themselves. That was not all; the Riders were cold, drenched, and not at all feeling comfortable.

Now there only remained about 27 or so Riders, as the others had gone scouting. Nelrith just hoped that if a skirmish with the Orcs should take place, it would be at least under a hundred. 'Now that is silly,' he reproached himself. 'This is Rohan. The plains. An army of hundred or more, if they were close to us, could not just hide like shadows.' But Orcs were creatures of the night, were they not? 'Still, they must make some noise that warns us.' Nelrith had just been staring at the mountains in the far North and East, and it seemed that the peaks suddenly grew higher and closer.

Mathin, an older Rider, felt Nelrith's nervous presence. "With fate's luck on our side, we should be alright," Mathin tried to comfort the younger man, "Anyway, Darian is too sharp-tongued to die." Nelrith smiled in the dark. Darian was sharp-tongued, that was true, and everybody who had heard of him and knew him knew that, at least.

"Let's hope that fate's luck is on our side, then," Nelrith replied, and fell silent.

Darian felt weary, even for a Rider. The rain had soaked all but his bones — that is, if they weren't wet already — and he felt that he had been riding longer than he actually had… Or had the plains stretched out some more, he didn't know. The storm seemed to have a strange effect on the horses, as well; they seemed to be drowsy for all the freezing rain and the occasional rumble of thunder. Darian had never seen Windmane like this and worried about him.

Taryne and Sinthe seemed, as well, to be in worse conditions. Darian and that stranger both knew that Taryne's wounds must be getting infected, although both hoped that the rain would wash the infections away for a while. The stranger had tried to wipe most of the dirt off Taryne's face without inflicting pain by touching the wounds, but Taryne writhed with agony. Darian had stopped him, and the stranger agreed. To Darian the stranger almost seemed afraid of Taryne, or rather his face. That angered him, and made him suspicious. It had only been ill fate and ill luck; what had happened to Taryne could have happened to anybody. However he decided to hold his tongue. Darian never attacked without knowing his (possible) enemies' strengths, weaknesses, and allies.

Everything seemed to be slowed down quite a bit. Darian looked around, still sheltering his eyes from the rain, and blinked in confusion. It seemed that nearly five hours had passed; however he was only two leagues away — just about — from the place he had found Sinthe.

The stranger Darian had encountered did not speak much. As darkness seemed to cover him up, Darian had to follow the sound of his footfalls. Or rather, his horse's footfalls and his combined, for both he and his stallion walked softly on the ground; even with the rain Darian noticed. He wondered how he did so; he must not be an ordinary Man to accomplish a task like that. Also, when he spoke, it was in the Common Speech — not the flowing tongue of the Rohirrim. Darian spoke both languages fluently; there was no need of misunderstanding. Although the stranger spoke Westeron as well as any other, the Rider Captain had a feeling that Westeron was not his native tongue. Or that he had been raised by others whose Westeron was not their native tongue.

Darian straightened Sinthe and watched him carefully. Good… His chest was still rising up and down, and his scars seemed somewhat better. He glanced over at the Ranger, who did not meet his look, and wondered if strangers right out of the blue were to be trusted, after all.

Thengel rubbed his temples and sighed… He felt so useless here, even if he was the Lord of the Mark. He had to deal with political problems, when he was most concerned about the blood in the air. There was a battle to come; Thengel could feel it. The wind had an uncomfortable, restless aura to it, and the rain and the lightning seemed to be a symbol of trouble.

He roamed the hallways restlessly. Something was not right. Rohan barely had thunderstorms like this; when it did, some misfortune or other was brewing. He remembered Darian, Sinthe and his best Riders and hoped that they would last the night.

Rohan had encountered more trouble than usual. Wild Men were becoming more restless, Orcs and Wargs traveled freely over the plains, and there were stories of villages being burnt and villagers being lynched, although none of the Riders never actually saw the process.

"My Lord!" one of the guards shouted. Thengel rushed over to see what the trouble was about.

The night was very dark, without a moon, but by the burning torches Thengel could see a form. A form crawling on the ground… Thengel approached the figure and knelt by him. The others — guards and some of the other councilors — circled him loosely.

It was Luthin… Thengel remembered him specially. He had been reckless and eager, proud and loyal: the normal Rohirrim Rider. He was badly injured; the crowd saw even with the dim light of the torches. "Get the healers," Thengel shouted over his shoulder. His hazel eyes glittered with urgency. "He is wounded, fatally if left alone."

Thengel redirected his attention back to Luthin. His eyes seemed to be closed, but his lips were forming words. Thengel leaned closer and listened. It was hard, as Luthin's voice was scratchy and hoarse if he had shouted for hours, but he understood.

"…Rohan… danger, milord… The stranger… the stranger, he attacked…. And orcs everywhere." He shivered and coughed. "…Nobody but … Sinthe… Taryne… survived…. I don't know if they are gone…. I have to go back."

Thengel bit his lip. He was not old, but that moment he felt older than ever. He sometimes wished that he never had left Gondor, but his father had been a greedy man. When he had died Thengel had been called back to Rohan, with his children. His wife, Morwen, had died before he had been called back.

The healer — Handas — bent over and looked over Luthin for some minutes. After that he sighed, and said: "The worst I feared is, milord… He cannot be healed. The wounds are fatal." Indeed as he spoke Luthin's already limited breathing seemed to become shallower and shallower.

Thengel thought quickly. "Luthin… Who is the stranger?"

But Luthin was already dead, and the knowledge of the stranger's name was gone.

After a break — for the horses were tiring — Darian watched the stranger look over both the Riders' wounds. He came up again with a grim face, rummaged his pack, sighed, and rubbed his temple as if he had a headache.

"What is the matter?" Darian asked.

"He — " Darian could see that the stranger meant Taryne — "is dead."

"What?"

"I should have noticed. But…" He shook his head, as if embarrassed — "I got distracted by the storm."

Darian felt sorrow rushing over him. However first things had to be first. Even if Taryne had lived he would have to resign from the position of Rider, for he would be handicapped for all his life. Not even the best healer could change that. "What about Si — the other one?"

The stranger paused for some while, and spoke softly. "He is dying, as well. There is nothing I can do to save him. He has almost reached the Halls of Mandos."

"It can't be," Darian said back. It couldn't be... Sinthe was like family, family Darian had lost when he had been young. He knelt beside Sinthe and tried to look for a sign of life. There was none, now.

"So he has already passed?" There seemed to be no emotion in the other's voice.

"And so you remain emotionless," Darian replied bitterly. "Yes, he has died, and he was like a brother to me."

"I have seen many Men die over my life," the stranger said, staring at Darian. It made him uncomfortable, but he returned the gaze. Hard. "Each one is a loss. But neverless we can't lose time for those who have already passed."

Darian sighed. He was right. Again. The storm seemed to have stolen away all his knowledge. "We ride back to Edoras," Darian said. "You must come with me. We have to make sure you are no spy. But I.. I thank you. I did not think Sinthe and Taryne would have survived... But you have my thanks."

The other nodded. "I must go to Edoras, then. I understand your concern for security... Dark times are coming."

To Be Continued


End file.
